


Painted Mirror

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ambiguous Relationships, M/M, the picture of dorian gray - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-24
Updated: 2013-09-24
Packaged: 2017-12-27 13:28:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/979490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael is painted a portrait by the artist Castiel, one that seems to take his sins onto itself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Painted Mirror

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: _I'd like to see Michael as Dorian Gray and his downward spiral into madness (or sin, whatever you wanna call it) but later on in his life he meets Adam and tries to better himself. The ending is up to whoever may or may not fill this as to weather Michael is able to redeem himself through the power of love or if he perishes in the same fashion as the book._

Perhaps it would have been better if Michael and Lucifer had never met. 

As it was, they had met through a mutual acquaintance – an artist named Castiel. He was a man of few words, but his words always held meaning when he spoke. However, to Michael, he was nothing more than a funny man who enjoyed painting him. It was strange at first, being revered with such wide-eyed attention, but it was not unwelcomed. Castiel often spoke of his brother Lucifer, a man spoken so highly of, yet one who’s face Michael seldom saw.

It began as a prodding curiosity; a small wondering about the strange blond that he sometimes saw glimpses of. Michael only ever heard about Lucifer from the quiet artist, though it was mostly in passing. The brothers were oddly private about each other, their eyes speaking words that no other man could attempt to guess correctly. Perhaps, as he was seldom without the company of Castiel, his curiosity grew and grew.

And so he decided to meet the mysterious brother. 

“He speaks of you often, you know.” The blond was reclined on a sofa, a glass of wine raised to his chin. His lips were formed into a casual smirk, eyelids hiding pale, icy blue. Michael could do nothing more than watch this lax creature, one so careless in his act, yet one so elegant in his carelessness. 

“He hangs off me like a lost child some days. With brothers, so close as you two seem, I mustn’t ruin your bond.”

“Castiel is neither a child, nor is he lost. He simply searches for something with pure beauty and he paints it. He is a simpler creature – I’m afraid I will be the only one to know his complexities.” The smirk on Lucifer’s face fell into a gentler smile, though he daintily took a sip of his wine. The red painted his lips a colour close to crimson, and Michael felt a shiver run through his spine.

“Then your brother must find many things that capture his interest, am I right?” Lucifer shook his head to this, spurring confusion in the black-haired man. 

“I’m afraid you have a unique beauty to you, and your youth certainly does not deter that. However,” his eyes finally opening to look Michael in the eye, “it is only for a fleeting moment.” 

“What?”

“How old are you? Twenty? Twenty-three?”

“Twenty-one.”

Lucifer let out a quiet sigh. “In ten years’ time, your prime will have passed. You will no longer have the beauty you have now. The privileges of youth fade fast.”

Michael could feel a frown mar his face. “Then my youth will be wasted.”

A slow, rapacious smirk rose to Lucifer’s lips. “Only if you continue as you are now. Doing nothing, following all those carefully laid rules – these years will fly fast.”

“Ah, Lucifer,” both men’s head’s turned to view the artist, who’s face held a soft smile Michael had never seen on him before, “you never say a moral thing.”

The elder brother simply smiled as he stood, his glass placed delicately on the table. He made his way to the doorway, a hand gently prodding at Castiel’s back. “Well, this has been a lovely meeting. I hope to see you again, the next time my dear brother comes to paint.” 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

The painting was beautiful.

Michael had no trouble identifying the man as himself. It was a portrait of him, in his youthful beauty, painted with a loving hand and a careful eye. 

“It’s a masterpiece.” Lucifer murmured quietly, stepping closer to the dark-haired youth, “I’ve never seen my brother paint anything quite like it. You’re certainly something unique, aren’t you, Michael?”

Michael eyed the painting, marveling at its beauty. The painting was of _him_ , of _his_ beauty, and _his_ youth, eternally preserving his complexion for decades to come. And suddenly, he thought of a clock and the ever-flowing passage of time. He thought of what the man beside him had said, about ten, maybe even five years, left to his youth, which was waning with each passing day. And his eyes grew cold, as he stared into the warm, unlined eyes of the portrait.

“I wish the painting would grow old, rather than I.”

The two brothers said nothing at this request, though Michael heard a quick, inhalation of breath. He turned to face Castiel, whose face displayed nothing. Sharp blue eyes bore into his own, searching for something, though Michael had no idea what that may be. Eventually, the black-haired artist sighed and bowed his head, clutching a paint pallet closer to his chest. 

“You’ve ruined him.”

Michael’s eyebrows drew together, his confusion growing as Castiel turned on his heel to leave. Lucifer let out a bark of laughter, leaning to press his lips against the shell of Michael’s ear. 

“You were right. I don’t like sharing my Castiel.” 

And suddenly, Michael found himself in his sitting room, alone with nothing more than the painting of himself as company.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Michael couldn’t remember when he started to notice the painting changing. 

He had been at the theatre, when an actor named Dean Winchester had caught his eye. For a while, a mere week, Michael had been in love. And yet, the boy ruined that love with his own, his beauty stemming from his art, his acting, and not his actual self. Michael fell out of love, and he had no qualms with informing the young man that tidbit of information. When he had returned home that night, the painting had changed, aging, with an almost malicious aura radiating off it. The smile which had grace its face had turned dark, almost spiteful. 

Michael ordered for a sheet to be placed over it and for the portrait to be moved to his bedroom.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

His next few days are spent while drunk. Everything around him is hazy, women flock around him because of his beauty, and his glass was filled with alcohol every time it got low. 

For weeks, he has the taste of all kinds of drinks in his tongue, and his world spins in a way that wasn’t disliked. 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Michael never knew how _good_ sex was. The pure euphoria of being _inside_ someone, moving, warm, towards a pleasure that could not be achieved in any other way – he couldn’t remember why he had tried to remain so pure before.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Years pass before he meets Castiel again.

When he does, it’s only because Castiel has come to his home. It’s the first time Michael’s seen him without a palette and a brush. He’s alone – Lucifer isn’t with him, and it’s been years, so many years since he last saw him. 

“I’ve heard rumours. It appears to me that they’re true.” Castiel seemed unbothered as usual, his face as stoic as he could remember. His arms were crossed over his chest, a smidge of paint covering the hems. 

“It’s been a long time, old friend. I wasn’t expecting-”

“Michael,” Castiel’s voice was firm, his eyes boring into his similar to how they had the last time the two had met, “show me the painting.” 

Michael dropped his polite smile, motioning to the artist to follow him. The two made down dimly lit hallways to his bedroom, where the painting sat, propped up over a mirror. No one was allowed in his quarters, save him, for the portrait had distorted into an unrecognizable figure. It was a creature of pure maliciousness, with eyes dark and cruel.

Michael tore his gaze away from it, fixating on the rare emotions on Castiel’s face. There, on full display, was horror and contempt so purely wrought that the aristocrat had trouble believing the man to be the same artist he had known long ago. 

And in his fingers started an itch, a burn. Beside him, on a table, sat a perfectly clean knife, used to open envelopes, yet no duller than any other useful blade. It found its way into his hand, his fingers curling around the hilt without his knowledge. 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

The wood was painted in red. The mirror was painted in red. Most importantly, the portrait was painted in red. 

At the base of his feet lay a cooling body, the body of an old friend. But it was his fault, wasn’t it? Michael smiled widely. Yes, it was his fault anything had happened at all. He was not wrong to kill. It wasn’t even killing, for the body in front of him could be, in no way human. After all, it was this artist’s work that had cursed him ( _gifted_ him?) with the portrait. Surely, this was not a sin?

The painting laughed a different tune. 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

“Where is he?”

Michael stepped back from the blond in front of him, feeling the waves upon waves of anger coming from him. Though his voice was calm, Lucifer’s eyes were cold, so cold that they seemed to burn into the very core of him. They were the eyes of the Devil himself, pouring into him, as if he could find the fate of his brother ( _lover _. Surely, there had been _something_ between the two) within his eyes. __

__“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Lucifer. I haven’t seen Castiel, or you, in many years.”_ _

__Lucifer tilted his head, though his eyes remained cold. He stepped closer to the aristocrat, a scowl at his lips. Slowly, he bent close, his chest touching Michael’s in a way that would have been enjoyable years before. Lips brushed against an ear, warm breath hovering over the skin. “Bring me there. Bring me to where you killed him.”_ _

__\- - - - - - - - - - - - -_ _

__The portrait seemed to stare down at them, at the two bodies and the pool of blood. One corpse had dark hair, the other had light, and both had crimson splattered on them. Their hands barely touched, blood soaking into the carpet and into the wood._ _

__The portrait stared at them. It stared at the light and the dark._ _

__\- - - - - - - - - - - - -_ _

__Michael later had the bodies removed, and the blood stains cleaned. His money saved his name from this one sin._ _

__The painting twister again, distorting darker and darker._ _

__\- - - - - - - - - - - - -_ _

__Adam was the strangest person Michael had ever met._ _

__He came from the same family was Dean Winchester, the one who had died in a tragic accident so many years ago. He was neither an actor, nor an artist. He was pure, loyal, independent, and so mature for his youth._ _

__Perhaps that is why Michael found himself so entranced._ _

__Adam made him want to be a better person. For each day he spent with Adam, a less day he would spend drinking, or pleasing himself with women. For each smile Adam gave him, the faces of the two brothers from long ago seemed to melt away. And for each touch, a hand on the shoulder, or a kiss on the cheek in private, Michael seemed to grow taller, warmer._ _

__It changed the day he invited Adam to his home._ _

__\- - - - - - - - - - - - -_ _

__It had been a while before Michael started to worry._ _

__Adam had gone somewhere in the house, claiming that, though he enjoyed Michael’s company, his bladder had other plans. That had been a fair while ago. True enough, none of the servants seemed to have seen the blond. Michael saw no other choice but to find the man himself._ _

__A smile rose to his lips as he thought of the blond._ _

__\- - - - - - - - - - - - -_ _

__Of all the places he thought to look, Michael had never thought that the blond would find _this_ particular room._ _

__There, in the center, stood Adam, with a dark black sheet clutched in his hands. Michael didn’t have to turn to know where the sheet had once been. The blond’s eyes were locked onto the portrait, the one painted by someone he had once called a friend._ _

__And there, the itch started again. The burning passed through his fingers, making him reach for the knife._ _

___’No,’_ he thought to himself, _’I don’t want to kill Adam, right? He makes me better, doesn’t he?’__ _

__The portrait, so cruel and so disfigured, with line of age creasing his skin, stared down once more at bright, crimson blood._ _

__\- - - - - - - - - - - - -_ _

__Michael let out a sob, his fingers still wrapped around the letter knife. He sunk to his knees, his free hand gently brushing Adam’s blond hair. The boy’s bright blue eyes ( _not unlike Lucifer’s; not unlike Castiel’s) stared at the ceiling with shock, and perhaps fear.__ _

___Michael slowly brought his gaze to the portrait, anger flaring up in him. He stood, his arm raised high and the knife poised to the painting that had brought him so much grief._ _ _

___\- - - - - - - - - - - - -_ _ _

___The portrait was beautiful, depicting a handsome man who was perhaps twenty years of age. There was a subtle smile, eyes bright with youth. It stared down at two cold, dead bodies, lying on the floor. One was a withered old man, with hair dark as the night, though a few specks of white and gray marred it. The other was a strange young man, with bright blue eyes and pale blond hair._ _ _

___The painting stared at them; it stared at the dark and its light._ _ _


End file.
